2001 - A Travel Odyssey

La Paz, Bolivia
December 28, 2001

Grabbing a hot spring dip at 12,000 feet in the 40 degree air of the Bolivian Altiplano.

It's been quite a year, this 2001. From the exhilaration of seeing man's technological triumph of a space shuttle launch; to the horror of man's cruelty in flying an airplane into a building.

Encapsulating this year for me will be difficult, but I am going to try briefly. I can't remember who said this, but: "forgive me, I do not have the time to be brief."

For me, 2001 really began to get interesting on 25 Jan, when both John Mack and I left Morgan Stanley on the 25th. I spent seven years working for the venerable firm and left friends, clients, and a large part of my identity - that of swashbuckling Wall Street dude and all the attendent caricatures - behind.

This hiatus gives me my first time away from an occupation of some type since 1988, when I finished college and went on active duty in the Marines.

Waking at 10am, 5 hours later than customary, I found New York to be a different place: people wandered all over the streets, Starbucks and Barnes & Noble were full of browsers...didn't these people have jobs to go to?! (Or maybe they are all former dot.commers!) I enjoyed meandering the city, delving back into my old hobby of black & white photography. I played computer games and surfed the net, I read books and the Times daily. I watched movies and just vegged around my flat. I went out and played a lot of golf! I think the life of luxury suits me.

Becoming a non-productive member of society took some getting used to. I shaved my head and grew a goatee, trying for some Bohemian look and lifestyle which Wall Street did not afford me. I stayed out past my work bedtime of 11pm, like a teenager breaking a curfew.

Rediscovering the depth of my non-work personality offered endless insights and humorous moments. I realized my anal-retentive nature (no doubt recognized by my work colleagues long ago), and penchant for (over)organizing things. It took a while before I felt less guilt lingering over a cinnamon roll and coffee and a book at a sidewalk cafe. My natural need to do or accomplish something kept whispering in my ear. Shaddup already!

In June, the road beckoned and I began a the mother of all roadtrips, across the continent. I traded in my Boxster for a more practical Pathfinder - which held my golf clubs and then some.

Armed with the Rand MacNally US road atlas, I proceeded to run up 15,000 miles and four months of road time - longer than the 6-8 weeks I anticipated. My opera and U2 CDs got the most playing time, though I grew to cherish silence, except for the wind and road noise. I pondered bits and pieces of my life, pictures and emotions plucked from the haze of memories long gone. Amazing how one can recall things in an enviroment of peace and quiet (and sheer boredom after 8 hours behind the wheel)!

My Pathfinder worked like a time machine, moving me back in time as I reunited with friends from long ago in my drive across the US. All those cities harboring folks from my past, which I never visited due to the ubiquitous "didn't have time" excuse which is the mantra of modern day life; became key destinations. I saw friends from high-school, the Marines, and Hong Kong in such far flung places as Nashville, Minneapolis, Charlottesville, and Jackson.

The chance encounters with fellow golfers as I played 30+ rounds across the nation provided some of the most interesting strange bedfellows. From Al, cigar chomping, swearing, former-Marine turned marshall on the RT Jones trail in Alabama to Dan, the senior circuit competitor at Dancing Rabbit, Missouri (also the strangest name for a course). The love of the game displayed by everyone I ended up playing with reflected my own deep fascination with golf as a metaphor for life.

Ultimately, as a friend likes to say, life's importance revolves around your personal relationships, friends and family. I could not agree more. Yet I have chosen to leave both behind in a search for...something. I tell people I travel to learn about myself, and this could not ring more true. As I slowly shrug off the compulsive, check-list focused travel, trying to see all the "must see sights," I find more time to just be.

Ranier Maria Rilke wrote: "What is necessary, after all, is only this: Solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no-one for hours - that is what you must be able to attain."

Overseas, I delighted in meeting and spending time with like minded travel folk. I don't fit the younger grunge backpacker set, those 20-somethings identified by dreadlocks, tattoos, tie-dye shirts and body piercings. Neither do I fit into the Yuppie Conde Nast group, on some Abercrombie and Fitch tour; though they probably are closer than I like to admit. Yet the thirst for adventure and hunger to explore the new and untried ties all of us together. The inimitable human spirit of growth.

Yet, I also relish my time alone, for reading, meditating and just pondering. Of course, sometimes I am soooo bored out of my skull that I search high and low for a hostal with cable TV, so I can get my fix of CNN, Seinfeld, and the Simpsons! One cannot keep one's head in the clouds all the time. Once in a while, I even succumb to my desperate need for the Big Mac #1 meal at Mickey D's...yes and SUPERSIZE that baby!

Just over seven months on the road thus far, three of those outside the US. My Central and South America legs raced by faster than I preferred, given some external time constraints, but I don't regret one moment. After all, you can't have everything...where would you put it?

I think that I visited about 40 countries thus far in my life, 9 in the last three months. I might cover about 70 when all is said and done...sometime in 2003...out of 180.

What have I learned? Hell, I don't know, and if I did, I don't know if I could quite put it into words. From moment to moment I may craft some interesting blurbs for these Travelogues, but the meaning of it all still eludes me. Yet, I continue to chase after something, that intangible Holy Grail, the meaning of life? How about I settle for just the meaning of MY life?!

I suppose my trip will end when I find it, or run out of money, or get bored and return home. Part of me knows that what I search for resides right here inside me, inside each one of us. You don't have to circle the globe, climb Everest, or meditate in a cave for ten years. I think life just implores us to be present, for every precious moment, as best we can. May you live in interesting times.

Best wishes for 2002 and I hope to see you somewhere out there.

All About My Mother

Machu Picchu, Peru
December 19, 2001

Mom and I stand in front of the Palace on Wheels after the "holi" festival of color in India.

Mom on the Palace on Wheels, where we train traveled through Rajastan, India in early 2003. Photo by Michael Seto.

"It's OK, Mike. I'll just sit here and rest a minute."

My mom patted the rock supporting her and smiled.

"Fine. I'll rest too. Just remember to take it slow, we're up pretty high." I stood to the side of the trail and drank some water from my bottle.

"Don't worry about me, I'll be just fine."

I worried anyway. After all, my legs burned and my lungs heaved trying to pull oxygen from the air at 7,000 foot. If I felt knackered, surely my 62-year old Mom MUST be tired! We sat about halfway up a steep hill set just behind Machu Picchu, which overlooked the entire site. A restored Incan building of some type clung to the hill another 600 vertical feet above us.

My mom flew in from the US earlier this week, always wanting to visit the mysterious Incan city of Machu Picchu. Now we stood here together, enjoying our second day at the city, tucked away on a hillside so remote it lay undiscovered until 1911.

She studied Spanish for the last nine months and her vocabulary well exceeded my "travel Spanglish." Incan and Mayan history fascinated her, so she spent time learning about their cultures, traditions and history; peppering our guide Claudio with amazing questions yesterday.

I enjoyed my mom's company, as nearly three months passed since I departed my childhood home in San Jose for Mexico.

She stood up and said, "OK, I'm ready." We worked carefully up the dirt and rock switchback trail, hewn into the nearly vertical hillside.

I stood balanced below my mom, positioned to catch her and arrest any fall. A foolish notion given my own tired state, but my chivalrous nature did not allow for any deterrence. This was my MOM for goodness sake.

Each time she caught me doing this my Mom would admonish me, "I'm fine Mike. If I can't make it, I'll just stop."

My mom loves to travel. Before I departed home, she covered our dining table with brochures, Conde Nast magazines, and guidebooks, comparing itineraries and destinations. Already an accomplished traveler with probably 45 countries under her belt, Mom relished the opportunity to go to Peru, just needing a travel companion.

My dad, he loves to watch TV. His favorite vacation is a nice long cruise with four buffets per day - preferably Chinese food. So Mom works hard to bridge the gap and design suitable vacations for both. She jumped at the chance to join me in Peru for Cuzco, the Amazon jungle and, of course, Machu Picchu. Dad was finishing up his last semester teaching engineering at San Jose State and said he'd stay home and take care of the cats.

For me, it offered a chance to spend a week with Mom, a family vacation. Something I had been absent from since my 1983 (I was 16) childhood trip to Hong Kong and Hawaii. Seventeen years without a true vacation with any one of my family. My rebellious college attitude combined with the Marine Corps ensured my exile.

So for a week I will get to stay in nice hotels (with hot water) and get transfers to the airport and a private guide to show us around. OK. I just hoped my independent "finding myself" nature could handle 170 hours (Ok, I forgot about sleep) with one of my parents. Having Mom show up to PTA meetings, award ceremonies, graduations and weddings was one thing; eating, sleeping, flying, and everything else together was another.

Being away from home from college onward, never allowed me to color my parents in-between the lines, to learn more about them as people. To see them as I now exlored myself, searching for a meaning to my life and the world around me. What did they discover? What did they dream about? Fear? What were their joys and disappointments? I never knew any of these things, as a child and even still as an adult.

This vacation allowed me to see my mom as a REAL person. Some friends of mine possess amazing relationships with their parents, treating them like best friends or soulmates. Me, brought up in the best Asian tradition, gave them loyalty, fealty, and respect (though no grandkids yet). For the longest time of my life, I only saw my Mom and Dad as my Mom and Dad; not real people with their own hopes, dreams, fears, insecurities and faults.

A child, for good reason, sees parents as omnipotent beings for many formative years; and this often carries over even through the rebelliousness of adolescence. College and the USMC took me away from home and for years I failed to enlarge the picture of my parents, my understanding of them, my empathy for them.

Prior to this, I only received glimpses from afar, like spotting an animal in the jungle. A rustle here, a phone call there, a letter or email. A jumbled mosaic, which I can try to interpolate. I could try and analyze my parents, try and figure out in neoclassical "lay-down-on-the-couch" psychology who they are and why I am who I am.

I could try to figure why I was an overachiever. What weakness did I hide through academic honors? What vulnerability hid behind the facade of the Marine officer? What insecurity bred behind the Wall Street material success? What drives me to seek something by travelling around the world?

But I don't do that. I don't feel any particular need to do that. Not right now. Perhaps I squander a chance that may not present itself again. Perhaps not.

I know deep in my heart that I love my parents (and my sisters)...unconditionally. They may feel different sometimes, but I know that they know this.

I love them just the way they are. For they are just like me.

"Ahhh, finally," Mom breathed a sigh of relief. Setting her pack to one side, she sat down and drank some water. Sitting on the edge of a cliff, we looked over the ruins of Machu Picchu 1,000 feet below us. The sun shone through the late morning clouds in golden rays, illuminating parts of the mountains surrounding the mysterious Incan city.

Now I saw Mom as an explorer; teaching and learning about the world, always helping others, compassionate, understanding, and deeply philosophical, though she may not describe herself that way.

I realized I am just like her.

She gazed at the sun striped valley below us, "Boy, isn't that just beautiful."

"It sure is, Mom. It sure is."

-----------------

Postscript

Don't think my Dad didn't travel either. He and I share noodles in a famous Hong Kong diner, Winter 2002. My Dad loves to spend time in Hong Kong, where he grew up.

Bulls and Ladrons

Quito, Ecuador
December 9, 2001

A bull's carcass get dragged out of the ring in Quito, Ecuador, where bullfighting still draws a big crowd. Photo by Michael Seto

Ssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh...the entire crowd in the stadium shushed and the hubbub dropped to an unreal silence given all the people watching. The crowd took in a collective breath and waited. The matador stood in front of the huge bull, sword in his right hand, held parallel to the ground, the deadly tip pointed between the horns. His crimson cape, hung limp in his left hand, half on the stirred up dirt of the ring.

I felt sorry for the bull, chased around the 80m diameter dirt ring by six or seven toreros (other matadors) who hid behind wood barriers when he charged. Only the lead matador stood his ground in the middle of the circular ground. Even the bull´s horns appeared to have been filed down to dull knobs.

Five minutes earlier, one of two picadors, or horsemen stabbed the bull between his shoulders with a long lance, drawing first blood. Then while the bull chased one matador, a Banderillo sneaked up upon him from behind it and triumphantly plunged two barbed staked into the neck and shoulder, close to the first wound. These flopped around as the bull continued to make futile charges at the other matadors.

Worn down by these charges, the bull, shoulder covered in dark red blood, dripping onto the dry dirt of the ring, his white coated tongue hung from his mouth. The animal stood ten feet from the matador, head bowed.

The matador lunged forward and sidestepped the bull´s raised horns and his hand shoved the blade into the flesh up to the handle. The bull ran in a few tight circles before its front legs collapse and his head plowed in the dirt. Eight hundred pounds of flesh and muscle froze momentarily before lumbering over onto one side, blood pouring from its mouth. The bull attempted to raise its head fruitlessly several times before one last gout of blood sprayed from its mouth. A torero stepped in close and deftly jammed a six inch knife into the top of the skull, a coup de grace I hoped.

The eight hundred pound carcass was unceremoniously dragged off by three horses and groundskeepers scrambled with brooms to cover the blood with dirt and prepare the ring for the next of what would be six bulls sacrificed today. The other deaths followed the exact same pattern and after two more hours, we left, feeling sorry for the bulls

The next morning, we arrived early at the airport for our 8am flight to the Galapagos. Waiting at Tropiburger (Ecuador's Wendy's) we worked at greasy ham, egg and cheese sandwiches while we commented on the Spanish language MTV blaring from the TV. The place filled with locals and other passengers.

I glanced down a moment later at my foot, where my backpack sat. Nothing. Hmmm, I thought I put that right here. I stood up.

F-CK! I've been robbed!

My mind sensed rather than saw a person just walking out the glass doors to the street. Three large steps took me to there and I exploded through the doors, eyes instantly scanning the sidewalk and parking lot, a shape, a man, I yelled, "HEY!"

There a man walked away with a black coat hanging from his arm. He turned as I shouted and dropped my backpack from inside the coat as I sprinted right at him. He turned and ran through a taxi rank as I grabbed my pack, seconds away from disappearing forever.

The doors behind me burst open again as my friend Dan crashed into the street a second behind me and saw me. I gave him the 'OK' signal as he asked what the hell was going on. Everyone stared at us as we walked back into the restaurant, "Nothing like a little excitement in the morning," I said. A couple cops walked by on the sidewalk a minute later and I explained briefly to them that some ladron, or thief, tried and smash and grab a minute earlier, but I was fine now. Like, where the hell were they when all this went down?

This was my first near disaster with thieves and reminded me how much I needed to be on guard. Having a friend from New York in town and having partied with another friend in Quito, I let my normal guard down, since everything seemed like my old life in New York, where I never feared something like this. Well, important lesson learned, fortunately at no cost.

Sometimes along the trip, I felt so paranoid about the locals that I became overly defensive and likely came across at best, standoffish, at worst, the typical arrogant foreigner. Its tough to tell the good from the bad sometimes, and with everyone out to make a buck (especially a US buck), it has been easier to shoot first and ask questions later. But this also has kept me from getting closer to some of the locals where I am traveling since I am worried about being conned or worse.

Gordon Rocks

Gordon Rocks, Galapagos Islands, Ecuador
December 3, 2001


My dive buddy Dan (left) and I horse around for a photo - this one from the much warmer Red Sea - where he came out to scuba dive with me yet again.

Just don't puke.

Please don't puke, I told myself.

A wave tossed me two feet off the boat's side and clammy sweat broke out all over my body. My face felt flushed and I could not cool off.

Little wonder since 10mm of neoprene covered nearly my entire body. I wore a 5mm full suit and a 5mm shortie to add more insulation for the frigid waters, about 58F. My tank pulled the vest into my shoulders and I looked like an ICU patient with hoses sticking out all over my torso.

I sat perched on the transom of a 24-foot motor dive boat. The deck rose and fell 4-5 feet on every wave, tossing unpredictably on the rough waters of the Galapagos, where the cold Humboldt is just one of several currents that converge here.

Richard, the dive master, got my attention, giving me a thumbs up. I flashed a thumbs up back to him, shoving my regulator into my mouth and taking a couple test breaths. Fine. On three, I looked up, leaned back and a kaleidescope of grey skys flashed to a view of my fins as the 45 pounds of gear I wore pulled me over the side of the boat.

I hit the water and felt instant relief from the nausea that threatened to make me the "chum-master" a moment earlier. (Little did I know that everyone else on the boat succumbed and took Dramamine earlier - except me.) The boat carefully but promptly moved off, making sure none of us were near the props. Richard gave the thumbs down gesture, dive, so I released the air from my vest and descended slowly.

The first descent into the water never fails to exhilarate and I forced my concentration to my buoyancy. As I sank into the cold water, I took in several things at once: my ears popping, the cold water in my suit, the visibility of the water, the location of my dive partners, and the slow leak in my mask! I added some air to slow my descent.

Air compresses under the water pressure so more air is required as a diver goes deeper in order to maintain ideally neutral buoyancy, where one neither sinks nor rises. This is a delicate procedure and requires constant adjusting as one changes depth, adding on descent; and more importantly, releasing air on ascent, or the air expands rapidly in a chain reaction, pulling the diver towards the surface - possibly inducing the bends - where nitrogen turns to a gas in one's bloodstream. Not good.

Our group of four divers sank through 30 feet, headed to 60 feet. I saw Richard pointing calmly. Turning my head in that direction, I strained to see in the dark water (the overcast day cut visibility) and made out a dark shape which materialied into a hammerhead shark. Below us, three spotted eagle rays moved in a line, looking like three black spades with long tails.

Holy shit.

Dan, my dive partner, still floated a good 15 feet above us, apparently having bouyancy problems. As he regained control and reached our depth, I tried to catch his eye, pointing out a marine turtle swimming toward us. He (they always look like these wizened old men of the sea) came right at me, moving with surprising grace despite a microwave sized body and just four tiny fins. Circling Dan and I, the turtle accelerated and disappeared into the gloom.

Swimming along at 60 feet, the water took on a strange look, like the shimmering off the asphalt of a desert highway. The thermocline, where water of different temperatures and/or salinity formed a semipermeable barrier. We descended through the layer, emerging into clear and VERY cold water below. A shadow crossed my peripheral vision. Above us...there. A solid shadow moved across the sky 20 feet above us, wings beat slowly, a manta ray with 8 feet wingspan swam, straining plankton.

We kicked against the current, weaker and calmer down here, compared to the three to four foot chop on the surface. Around us, we spied more turtles, stingrays, powerful Galapagos and black tip sharks, and the majestic manta rays.

But we came here to this famous site for hammerheads, and we would not come away disappointed. With just 750 lbs of air left...the dive profile called for us to head up at 500 lbs...I saw Richard pointing animatedly ahead. We hovered between the two semicircles of coral that made up Gordon Rocks, a volcanic cone built up from the sea floor over the past 20,000 years.

There! Equally prehistoric, several dark shapes approached, about our depth, then more, the more. At least ten. The shapes became more defined, turning grey from black, fins and tails solidifying. The distinctive head draws the eyes and attention, as though viewing a deformity which captivates by its abnormal shape. Hammerheads. Where one expects a sleek bullet shape for cutting through the water instead one finds a thick wing, mounted just above the mouth, like the fins on a submarine. One either end, a black eye stares out at us.

We float, suspended in blue water, with no coral nearby for reference. I feel myself thrashing at the water, wanting to pull myself up onto something solid, but at 50 feet, there is nothing but water. I take a quick glance at my depth guage, holding steady. Without any visual clue, I have sank deeper into the ocean while my attention was focused on sea life...like these hammers.

The shapes undulate and move closer, heading right for us. I pull my legs up instinctively as they pass six feet below my fins. I slow my breathing and calmly watch the dozen or so hammerhead sharks slink by below me, each one 7-8 feet in length. Wow. It really does not get any better than this.

Ten minutes later, we stand around the deck, holding on to any stanchion to keep from falling as the boat heads back to Puerto Ayora, 90 minutes away.

As with any amazing dive, we are all smiles and shout about the incredible things seen on the dive.

Our seasickness is forgotten.

Happy Birthday, Chesty

Caracas, Venezuela
November 10, 2001

The Marine Corp War Memorial in Arlington National Cemetery shows the flag raising on Iwo Jima on 23 Feb 1945, near the end of World War Two. Of the six servicemen pictured, three would later be killed and two wounded in the continuing battle. The photo won a Pulitzer Prize for photographer Joe Rosenthal of the Associated Press.

The triumphant brass band notes blare from the speakers, sounding John Philip Souza's tribute to his Marine Corps, Semper Fidelis, the motto of the Corps, meaning, "always faithful."

United States Ambassador Donna Hrinak looks on as four Marines, resplendent in their dress blues, bring forward a huge cake with the USMC's emblem: the eagle, globe and anchor.

Around me sit some 100 persons, all embassy staff here in Caracas, Venezuela. We gather under a tent on the chancery grounds, eschewing the normal evening gala ball for a more low-key and secure venue. The world we live in changed since last year celebration. The anxiety hangs in the air like the Venezuelan humidity.

The Marine Corps turned 226 years old today; founded on 10 November 1775 in Philadelphia, PA. This marks thirteen times that I have celebrated this day as a Marine and now former Marine. The traditional birthday message from General John Lejeune, the 13th Commandant of the Marine Corps, emanates from the podium:

"...This high name of distinction and soldierly repute we who are Marines today have received from those who preceded us in the Corps. With it we also received from them the eternal spirit which has animated our Corps from generation to generation and has been the distinguishing mark of the Marines in every age."

Lejeune referred to the intangible spirit of our Corps: valor, honor, duty.

Since Vietnam, people snickered or rolled their eyes at such terms, as if the concepts themselves stood withered. At best, perhaps a quaint anachronism in the 21st century, in our modern world of global capitalism and the borderless internet.

Until September 11th, 2001.

In an instant, bravery, selflessness, sacrifice, and courage, became revered, not ridiculed. People of honor existed all around us, as firefighters, police and doctors, just waiting for the crucible of crisis to emerge. All of this televised for the world to see.

The stage of satellite TV and 24-hour news portrayed the anonymous, yet antagonist groups: those who serve and those who destroy.

We became a community again; and service to community once again became an honorable undertaking; instead of one left for those sad-sacks who did not become lawyers, consultants, investment bankers, or internet millionaires.

Traveling outside my country during this time gives me a strange new perspective as the vivid images of the September 11th atrocity fade. No fear of anthrax mail or a car bomb permeates my day. Instead, I worry about pickpockets and bus crashes and finding a clean hostel. Fellow travelers talk of other things. The war news comes in ephemeral bite-size morsels, never filling and quickly forgotten.

Sitting there at the embassy, itself sovereign US ground, listening to the words praising the battle history of the Marine Corps and the country of which it is but a microcosm; I realized the importance of a regular reminder of these intangible qualities. For I once counted myself among such men and women in service; believing in my heart in duty, honor, Corps, and country

I realized how cynical part of me had become over the past few years. How much I forgotten about the person I want to strive to be. But it is never too late to renew vows and rededicate oneself. A reminder is all it takes.

The words themselves are mere shadows of the true virtues they so inadequately describe. Virtues which still permeate our nation, our community, and our spirit; without which, human civilization is not possible. Our world needs these virtues, not the mere caricature of words, but the decisiveness of behavior and action, undertaken by each of us.

In describing the Marines fighting the battle of Iwo Jima in the closing stages of World War II, Admiral Nimitz, Commander of the Pacific Theater, said, "uncommon valor was a common virtue.

Perhaps we Americans, as the most influential nation on Earth, can revise that for the 21st century to read: "Uncommon compassion was a common virtue."

*"Chesty" is Lewis B. 'Chesty' Puller, a legendary Marine with five Navy Crosses for valor, USMC 1924-1955.

Also jump to "Letter to America" my travelogue from 6 March 2003.

Best Westernized

San Jose, Costa Rica
November 7, 2001


Familiar food, even if I cannot read the sign.

Days of sleeping in a nice bed at the Best Western, with clean towels, hot water, CNN, HBO, McDonald's, Pizza Hut, etc, reminds me too much of why I chose to take this trip in the first place: to get out of my comfort zone and discover myself while seeing the world.

I also envisioned a more mystical journey, filled with days of meditation on mountain tops and daily yoga in exotic jungle temples. Well, I manage to meditate about four times weekly and have done yoga like once. I foresaw a trip filled with learning and self-discovery.

I have learned that while not dependent on my creature comforts, I do enjoy them, more than I thought. But I could also do without them for stretches, which make them that much more enjoyable later.

I also figured out that, often, I don't possess any inkling of what I really want. When I travel alone, I search for other travelers; with fellow travelers, I long to be alone. I read and re-read the Lonely Planet guides, trying to come up with the optimal plan...ensuring my trip is on the efficiency frontier. Yuck, how anal is that!?

Well, just give yourself a break sometimes and don't be too hard or demanding. After all, no matter where you go - there you are.

One thing I do know is that I am ready to head out on the next leg of my journey. The good thing about sitting still in one place for four days is that the longing for travel takes hold again.

I missed a lot of the "key" tourist sites in Central America and let go of my planned schedule earlier in the trip than I thought. I'm glad too. The important thing is to be present as much as possible and not necessarily to check off every block on the list. After all, as I keep telling myself, it's the journey and not the destination.

Central America Observations:

- Guatemala is one of the most beautiful and interesting of the countries down here, with amazing indiginous people.

- Used US school buses rule the roads here and also provide the most interesting mode of transport...especially the local "chicken" buses filled with campesinos.

- The older, colonial cities with Spanish influence, like Antigua, Granada and Oaxaca attracted me more than the dirty, noisy, and dangerous capital cities.

If this particular Travelogue seems a bit stream-of-consciousness, well, it is. You can view this as a bit more of a "Captain's log" rather than a more theme oriented piece like my previous ones.

I have blazed through the first leg of my trip, keeping true to my intention of covering as much ground as possible on buses and ground transport and minimizing flying. In fact, my first flight is tomorrow to Caracas, Venezuela.

I have been on the road since 6 Oct and really spent a quick month in five countries. I think things will slow down a bit more in South America, where I plan to hit six countries in four months.

Lago Lightinng

Panajachel, Guatemala
Oct 26, 2001


Me overlooking the Mayan ruins at Palenque, Mexico.

The water turned warm then hot. I stepped into the steaming stream and sighed; the first hot shower in ten days. I stood and let the water warm my neck and back for ten minutes before stepping out into my private bathroom and drying off.

I rented an expensive ($20) room in a small house run by Pedro and his wife in Chichicastenango, a trading city in the Quiche (key-chay) highlands. The spacious room sported Mayan wood carvings and a bright patchwork quilt. A yellow wood jaguar with red spots held the lamp by the bed. My private balcony looked out on the mountains behind the city, where a famous market took place on Thursday (the next day).

The previous six days took me from Flores along the backroads of Guatemala, leaving the El Peten rainforest and climbing the spiny central highlands, the Cordillera de los Cuchumatanes. Beat up chicken buses, old US schoolbuses with the same broken window latches, plied up and down single dirt tracks cut into the steep mountains.

With no set schedule, we stood by the road and hailed buses going in our direction, crowded with campesinos going to and from the small villages that became namesakes in our country jaunt: Coban, Sayache, Uspantan, Sacapulus, Quiche, and Chichi.

At each stop, the Mayan descendent women clambered aboard in their fantastically colored hupiles, hawking all manner of food and drink. A chicken wing in a scoop of greasy rice wrapped in three flour tortillas stuffed in a plastic bag became the staple that sustained us for these multi-hour trips.

Road dust floated in as the buses stopped every ten years to pick up or drop off someone. What about some central bus stop for heaven's sake! The rutted roads and worn out springs made for a proctologist's nightmare ride. Horns sounded at every curve and every few minutes the bus slid to a stop, in a standoff with a truck or a pickup filled with people. After a moment, one car backed up off the road. I never figured out the pattern of yielding the right-of-way.

One bus leg finds three of us gringos on the roof of one of the ubiquitous chicken buses. The colorful rides get downright exhilarating on the top as we duck low hanging braches every few seconds to the cry of, "ramas," (which I deduced meant braches). The hue of "libre," brought our heads back up from behind baskets of fish, backpacks, roped firewood, and someone's shiny red new wheelbarrow. Two hours brought some rain as we ascended the Cordillera - note to self: bring warm cloths on bustops. My shorts and shirt did not cut it up there, but we were forced back inside finally by the driver as we approached a police checkpoint, ending our Ramas-ride.

After stuffing my backpack to the brim with cheap Mayan cloth and carvings at the Chichi market the next day, I made my way (after one more hot shower) to Lago Atitlan. The lake fills an old volcano caldera and sits at 5,500 feet in the mountains. Three other volcanos rise above the lake to over 9,000 feet, like Mount Fuji xeroxed. I settle into a room on the lake in Panajachel, a small tourist town.

I have hot water here also, and a TV. I surf the channels and find The Simpsons, in English. I spend the next 30 minutes laughing aloud and surely annoying my neighbors, two Aussie women doctors. Surfing more, I miss ABC World News, also in English, but catch the local news feed afterwards...from WKRN 2 in Nashville! So I don't know the situation in Afghanistan, but I do know it will be in the mid-30's at this weekend's University of Tennessee's Vol's game. Go figure.

Stepping outside into the evening, rising clouds blot out the sunset I hoped to see. Instead, brilliant flashes of lightning begin to illuminate the sky behind Volcan San Pedro, across the lake from me. Shades of gray clouds layer over the black volcanic cone. The clouds light up bright white and gray, rhythmically with the staccato flashes.

Answering the call, Volcan Atitlan and Toliman emerge as solid black shapes, backlit by stoboscopic flashes against the halo of clouds clinging to their summits. The volleys go back and forth, from my left to right and back again as the gods in the volcanoes build to a crescendo. I can almost hear Moussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain in the background. The night grows colder as a wind blows in off the lake, but still no thunder accompanies the lightning. I shiver and pull on my fleece for the first time this trip.

Standing alone on the shore, I lose myself in the light show before I realize that two people stand next to me. It's Rachel and Natasha, my two neighbors from Perth, and bathroom mates. They invite me for drinks and pizza next door. I tell them I will be along in a moment, after a few more minutes of the lightning on the lake.

Oaxaca Dreams

Antigua, Guatemala
October 12, 2001



A church in Antigua, Guatemala. Beautiful architecture like this also reigns in old colonial cities like Oaxaca, Mexico.

I spent the last two and a half days here in this old colonial city tucked in a valley in the state of Chiapas. You fall right in love with Oaxaca (wa-HA-ka) upon seeing the tree shaded zocalo (square). Brightly painted buildings in deep blues, pinks, yellows and greens line the streets, while polished wood doors beckon.

The people charm away any remnants of the seige mentality inhereted from any time spent in Mexico City, where one watches over one's shoulder for pickpockets like bin Laden looks for Delta Force. Many other travelers I spoke to left Mexico after a day or so and gravitated here.

My first stop, following two German backpackers took me to a hostel recommended by the Lonely Planet, costing just P70 ($8) per person. I wandered over and opened the door to the communal toilet and found the set from Trainspotting. Bidding my cheaper German friends farewell, I hustled down the street to a hotel for double the price, but newly renovated and clean - and a bano privado (private bath) - Hotel Aurora.

For a while I recalculated the cost of a P150 room ($17), doing my best mental F9 and projecting the cost over the next year. After some mental gyrations I figured that the bank would not be broken and I could "rough it" and save on food instead. Good choice.

Food for the adventurous comes cheap, hot and plentiful, amidst a colorful setting too. Taking a break from the 36-hour endurance ride from Tijuana to Mexico City, the driver beckoned us off the bus in a small town. I grabbed my passport and got ready to run for it, sure we were being handed over to gunmen.

Instead, I found myself wolfing down some tacos at a sidewalk vendor, literally sitting under a street light with the smoke from the skillet, mounted on some contraption with two bike wheels, wafting into my face. Six tacos and P30 later, I thanked the driver for pulling us to his favorite spot...I never found out the city.

Similar dining experiences awaited me in Oaxaca, where a doorway leads to a old woman deep frying quesadillas in a wok for P4 each. Filled with cheese, coriander and covered with frijoles negros and a green salsa, I delighted in the authentic Oaxaca cuisine.

Mexican beer and salted peanuts heralded the night, seated in one of the sidewalk cafes lining the four sides of the zocalo. The distinctive Zapato indian people resembled American Indians, with sharp features, jet black hair and brown eyes. Tourist mingled with locals and other Mexican vacationers circum-ambulating the square.

After a day trip to the nearby Monte Alban ruins, just 30 minutes away, I prepared to leave my newly adopted home in Mexico. Two other travelers from the UK shared drinks with me last night, passing thru Oaxaca for a second time, so strong was their infatuation with the city. I plan to return also...someday.

Chicken Bus

El Naranjo, Guatemala
October 18, 2001



Classic chicken bus; this one is leaving Antigua to Guatemala City, the capital of Guatemala. Photo by Michael Seto.

The dilapidated bus rumbled in early, squeaking and bouncing along the rutted tracks in the grass. A young man in jeans and a t-shirt stood in the door, "Flores! Flores!"

We grabbed our packs, yelling back, "Si, si!" and hustled over.

He strapped our packs to the roof and we climbed onto the bus. Every seat was filled with Guatemalan farmers, women, and children. I spotted a couple empty seats in the back and we hoisted our day packs and squeezed through the aisle, no-one made any effort to move aside as we passed.

I sat down and said, "buenos dias" to the man next to me, who smelled of several days sweat and wore clothes whose mud stains looked permanent. He did not respond. Sitting there, I heard a squeal and glanced behind me, to see this old woman with a chicken squirming around in a plastic bag, I thought this is going to be interesting.

Andrew and Fiona and I met at the bus station leaving Oaxaco to Palenque. They were English backpackers and we hung out together and decided to travel to Mexico over a less common route Tenosique to El Naranjo to Flores, our ultimate destination.

This involved a complex sequence of transportation, which serendipidouly arrived on time. We rode a small van to La Palma in Mexico and there negotiated for a speedboat to take us on a three hour journey up the Rio San Pedro to El Naranjo, in Guatemala.

William, our Mexican speedboat pilot glided the boat in sensuous curves up the river, hemmed in on both sides by reeds and trees. Birds started and flew off at the sound of our boat. Passing some rapids on our right, I leaned over to get a better look as the broader river continued forward.

Suddenly, William banked the boat and headed straight for an impassable gap. We gasped and I crouched down, grabbing the back of a seat and flexing my knees, waiting for the impact against the rocks defining a five foot gap thru which water surged toward us. In a instant we exploded into calm waters on the other side of the gap, passing with inches to spare. I glanced at William as I sat back down and he smiled.

The remainder of the speedboat journey was as calm as the morning water of the river and we arrived safely in the scrap wood and aluminum siding rag-tag village of El Naranjo a few hours later - and hopped the chicken bus.

I looked at my watch after dozens of stops, where people jumped on or off the bus. One hour. The young guy who collected our 25 Quetzals told us the ride would be four hours. The bus smelled like a stale locker room and all the passengers needed a deodorant bomb to go off in the bus, including us.

Three hours into the journey down pot-holed dirt road, a trio of girls boarded, yelling in Spanish, hawking soft drinks and some tortillas. After some debate, I looked at her wares, a yellow chicken wing, sitting on some rice, wrapped in three small flour tortillas. The rice was orange from the chicken grease. I forked over 5Q and dug in with my fingers into the hot food. it was delicious.

We arrived in Flores a while later and found a nice hotel. After a cold shower and a beer, I sat on the porch overlooking Lake Peten Itza, on which Flores island sits, and thought, what a great trip on my first chicken bus.

The Things I Carry

San Jose, California
September 30, 2001

A few days into my Nepal trek - don't carry too much or you too will have a sore back. I had about 50 pounds of stuff.

My new Eagle Creek World Explorer backpack refuses to accept one more thing. Not a roll of film. Not a waaaahfer thin mint. One-third of my clothing and equipment still lie on my bedroom floor, mocking my planning and packing skills. Doooooooh! Revelation: a 5,100 cubic inch car engine is big, a 5,100 cu in backpack is not.

My medical kit hogs the most space. Covering every possible medical contingency, from blisters to broken bones, the custom designed and meticulously arranged gear takes up the size of a large dictionary: Band-aids, gauze, Kerlix, EMT shears, cloth tape, tweezers, Hibiclens, Second Skin, moleskin, latex gloves, ace bandage, butterfly stitches, iodine, Ciproflaxin, Flagyll, Benadryl, Larium, Vicadin, Motrin, Immodium, and condoms. I could support a SEAL team in Afghanistan. I must be getting old.

Nothing in the pack feels familiar to me. I just bought everything new since ‘regular’ clothing does not ‘work’ when backpacking around the world. This endeavor requires more ‘specialized’ gear, made of new fabrics: polypropelene, capilene, bergelene; everything ends in –ene, except my Gore-tex. I flip over the label on my new clothes: 100% polyester. Wait a minute, this is what our astronauts wear!? High-priced polyester, which fashionistas lampooned in the Eighties?

Backpacking, as I discovered driving across America, is not cheap. No longer content with Army-Navy surplus, we carry $300 Eagle Creek packs, filled with $50 Columbia convertible pants (“Two zippers open makes you comfortable. Three makes you a pervert”) – I love that!

Columbia shirt with epaulets $45, Patagonia boxer shorts $30, North Face fleece $65, EMS thermals $60, North Face rain jacket $225, Merrell hiking boots $140, and my favorite Thor-lo hiking socks $14 (four pairs)…and a slipped-disc carrying all this…priceless.

Some guidebooks suggest three categories of gear: essential, nice-to-have, and luxury, when packing for a trip. After two weeks of staring at the array of stuff on my floor, arranged like a surgeon’s tray, I cannot tell the difference. Years of business trips spoiled me; I wore a suit, packed an extra shirt, tie, and toiletries, then hopped a cab to JFK. Packing for climates from tropical Amazon jungle, Antarctic wasteland, Saharan desert, and Himalayan highlands boggles the mind. I decide to cut my packing list in half, solving my dilemma. Setting aside supplementary gear ‘packages’ at home, one for mountains, one for tropics, one for Antarctica, I will rely upon Mom and FedEx to keep me properly equipped on my journey.

As I travel, I expect that new acquisitions of native garb, with resplendent colors, will replace worn ‘high-tech’ clothes as I meander. Local products might beckon, despite the Gillette, J&J and Duracell products lining shelves from India to Uruguay. My pack, meticulously filled with oh-so-familiar items from home, will give way to more new, exotic finds. After all, isn’t shedding the familiar and embracing the new what travel is all about?

New York, New York

New York City
September 17, 2001

I stepped out of the cab on Astor Place and Broadway, blocks from my old studio, in Union Square, where crowds gathered around candlelit memorials. It’s 9 pm Monday night, September 17th, the day after my 35th birthday, which I did not fell like celebrating.

The flight from SFO to JFK was full, despite my expectations of few travelers. The line at the airport missed expectations also, as I breezed through check-in and the security check in eight minutes, leaving me three hours to wait for the flight. My requested window seat gave no view of the devastation since the plane arrived at night.

I decided on my birthday that I needed to return to my home of the past three years and see for myself what happened to the city I consider to reflect myself most. United Airlines put me on a flight the next day, using 25k miles.

The next morning, I walked down Seventh Avenue to Houston, turning away at the West Side Highway to proceed down to Canal Street, then heading East. Along the way, my eyes sought out the two landmarks that normally dominated the skyline this far downtown. Nothing. Yet the lack of any debris in sight lent a surrealism to the view. No towers stood, but neither any evidence of their destruction.

The Mobil station on the West Side Highway at Canal sat behind tables of supplies and piles of clothes four feet high. Yellow plastic tape reading, “Do Not Cross,” stretched around the pumps and across the street like a strand of spider web. Police, camouflage clad Guardsmen, and NYPD Cadets stood behind the blue sawhorses, now ubiquitous throughout the downtown area, checking IDs.

I trudged East, each street heading South blocked by some combination of law enforcement, lines of people pulling hand luggage, wearing backpacks, and gesticulating with documents to the sentries.

Strolling past one group, I found myself behind the barricade, small knots of people wandering South, the streets bereft of any cars other than police cars, fire engines and black Suburbans with concealed sirens on some clandestine mission.

Making my way down Duane Street, my nose first caught the acrid scent of burning man-made material, talked about on TV ad nauseum. Stores and restaurants hid behind steel shutters, some windows bearing hasty flags or placards exhorting support. Dust piled in crevices and coated windows, papers of all sorts danced at street corners.

I emerged at Chambers and Greenwich Street, two blocks from ‘Ground Zero,’ where only three months earlier I took my friend from Beijing to the observation deck and rooftop of Tower Two for a sightseeing trip…my first time…and last time. I sat in the lobby of the WTC many times in May, waiting at TKTS for a chance to see Contact, or Fosse, or Chicago for half-price.

I stood and looked past a chain link fence at the wreckage. Behind me, a knot of hard-hat and fluorescent vest wearing workers stood at a makeshift McDonalds. The stand looked strange, sans cash registers. People in all manner of uniforms, BATF, Secret Service, FBI, DEA, NYPD, NYFD, moved past me as though I stood next to a moving walkway. After a while, I felt guilty just observing, like a rubbernecker at the crash of the century. Helpless. Useless. Maybe these people felt that way also.

Their eyes, glazed over, possessed the thousand-yard stare of war veterans. Dazed, only partially comprehending the input around them. Minds fighting to assimilate the enormity, seeing only bits and pieces at a time. Little grief showed, only shock. Later, in the mirrow, I saw the same in my eyes.

I kept busy the rest of the week, not allowing my mind to come to a rest, which meant trying to comprehend what was now incomprehensible. Around me, the city seemed to go through the motions, buying bagels, drinking beer, walking the dog. I spent morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, pre-dinner drinks, dinner, and post-dinner drinks with all my friends I could contact. Relieved to do something that we did all the time, pre-WTC.

Conversations tended toward the subdued, like when one person is distracted or preoccupied. But now everyone was. Perfunctory greetings gave way to the hush question, “Is everyone you know OK?” Then we turned to the tales, each person remembering with perfect clarity…the moment. The moment they heard, saw, or were told breathlessly by another, that the World Trade Center had been blown up. A frozen instant.

The week evaporated in a moment, filled with a kaleidescope of scenes, visions, stories, but lacking emotions. I did not cry once. Why, I cannot tell you. But this experience was shared by most of my friends, each coping with the emotion like an unfolding flower, opening at its own pace.

I played golf Sunday with my old golfing chums, reliving the good ol’ days. Burgers on the Upper East Side afterwards capped off the day. The 4pm streets filled with cars, taxis, bikes, pedestrians, and dogs like any other Fall day in New York. My friends and I argued over golf rulings, as usual. For an instant, one could believe that none of this had happened.

My trip the next morning to JFK by cab seated me behind Singh Pandit, the driver. Of course we talked about the bombing and its aftermath. He talked of some discrimination and gestured toward the panel van ahead of us, its rear window filled with the turbaned mug of Bin Laden, “Dead or Alive” underneath. Speaking loudly through the plexiglass shielding him, we both lamented the WTC tragedy; but held onto the hope of a blossoming of greater compassion, understanding, and empathy among humankind.

Bandon Dunes

Bandon, Oregon
August 25, 2001


"The first tee is yours." Said the golf club pro, a moment later I stood at my car changing into long pants and my spikes.

Two minutes and I stand on the first tee of Bandon Dunes, a 357 yard par four, dogleg right. The sun hangs about three-fourths of the way along its path, maybe two more hours of light left.

Without any warm up, I stroke a four iron into the fifteen mile per hour breeze. Thwack! A crisp shot as I relax and swing smoothly, but the ball balloons into the air and lands a mere 160 yards out, but in the fairway. I shoulder my bag and walk off the tee box. There seem to be no carts here; and I did not ask at the pro shop.

I debated whether or not to play Bandon Dunes as I drove down Highway 101 from Portland. Over the five hour journey, I finally decided to go for it, despite the $175 green fees.

When my car turned the final corner into the compound, where a two story wooden lodge, in modern Ikea style, overlooked the true links style course, I hopped out full of excitement.

The course lies adjacent to the azure blue Pacific Ocean, ranked #3 by Golf Magazine for Top 100 Courses in the US. I can see why.

A little haggling gets me on for $60 and a $270 room for $100. Nice to see how sympathetic people are to someone driving and golfing across the continent.

I play smoothly, hitting crisp iron shots and a couple wayward fairway metals, but the low cut gorse makes balls easy to find off the banged up, thin links fairways; true to form with not one level lie.

On the eighth tee, the lengthening and orange shadows vanish as the sun dips behind some low lying mist, coloring the sky an iridescent pink. Finishing my nine in graying twilight, a silver sliver of a crescent moon appears, hovering over the silhouettes of the wind bent trees.

I retire to the dining room for a nice cabernet and Cohiba, looking forward to a full round of 18 holes tomorrow morning.

Y10K

Jackson, Wyoming
August 6, 2001


Y10K! My car has 10,000 more miles on it now. It rolled over to 52,000 miles in Las Vegas. I retreated to the glitzy, kitschy, cheesy, yet mesmerizing land of excess a couple days ago. I left New York 62 days ago, much longer than the 45 days I expected it would take me to cross the country.

I stopped in Vegas when the trip became a mission of checking off blocks, rather than enjoying each moment. Something known as vacation or travel burnout; something rarely experienced for me when working since it takes at least a week on the road to enter this state. I found that two days in Vegas reset my fun meter and allowed me to once again wonder and marvel at things.

The days blended together with so many meals consisting of fast food consumed while I steered with one knee, rushing to the next destination. Most names ring familiar: Dennys, McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell, KFC, Wendys. Others not so familiar: Shoney's, Waffle House, Golden Corral, and egregiously non-PC, Bojangles (only in the South, of course).

Also, cheap hotels do not exist in the US for the most part, Motel 6, Comfort Inn, Hampton Inn (not down the L.I.E.) and Super 8 run minimum $40 per night and average $55-60. What happened to the gonzo cheap days of Hunter S. Thompson-esque road trips (and the trunk full of psychedelics).

Jackson, Wyoming, lay next on my path, the trans-US trip now two-thirds complete. Here, further recharging took place in a wonderful log home near Teton Village, where my friends family built a house and guest house. I played golf today at Teton Pines, guest of the CEO of AT Kearney (friend of my hosts).

My second shot on the par-4 18th, a 8-iron pushed right, thwacked off a tree and kicked hard right another 15 yards, landing in the rough near VP Cheney's house. Just in the shadows of a tree, a Sercret Service agent sits in a golf cart, watching the fairway bordering Cheney's backyard.

I wonder if I can go hit the ball. Do I need to ask permission? Should I leave it? How do I look like a hapless golfer (not too hard)? I decide to tromp thru the long grass looking for my ball, consciously ignoring the armed man twenty feet away, no doubt some sniper's crosshairs also locked onto my Titlelist cap. I find the ball and pitch it on the green. "Nice shot," says a Secret Service agent.

My car will probably see another 4000-5000 miles before I arrive home in San Jose in late August. But I feel an important lesson has been assimilated. Travel's ultimate purpose is to see things in a beginner's mind and be touched by what we see. When this does not happen, one needs to stop and rest for a while so as to remain in the present and not just go through the motions.

"Running to Stand Still"

Moab, Utah
August 6, 2001


Me relaxing at a riverbank cafe in Vietnam...finally!


The chicken Caesar salad still sits on my table, only half-done after 20 minutes. I feel like a cow chewing its cud. My first meal after fasting for three days.

I decided to chew real slow, savoring each nuance of flavor and each subtle change in texture of my food. I feel like the kid whose mom tells him to chew 100 times before swallowing. Mastication seems close to masturbation.

My tongue must be forced to push the sludge back to my teeth and cheeks, away from the ravenous esophagus, always trying to suck the food away. Not swallowing takes practice, like at the dentist.

Chewing and working takes focus. Resistance to our ingrained chew -swallow - next bite takes discipline.

My meals in NY resemble a meat processing plant, with its never-ending chain of animals humming along. Knife, fork, spoon, chopsticks dance at our plates. Sea bass, lentils, and garlic mashed potatoes disappear in moments.

We rush our meals.

Actually, we rush everything. I rushed to finish my 18-holes of golf today, although alone with no-one behind me. People blaze past me on the highways at 80 MPH. I drum my fingers while pages load on a T1 line, frantically alt-tabbing through three pages of Netscape to see what loads first.

My friend's t-shirt bears the zietgiest of our times: "Instant Gratification is not Fast Enough."

We try to squeeze in events between the ticks of the clock, always fighting time, our most precious commodity. Too bad we cannot buy some at the CBOT.

I do not know why I feel rushed most of the time; even though my life has no concrete goals for the next two years. Maybe an answer will make itself known.

But, now I have to run, my Palm is chirping, my cellphone ringing, and I am late to get...somewhere.

Well, at least my Mom will be happy...I chewed my veggies.

As Pink Floyd says in their lyrics:

"Every year is getting shorter;
never seem to find the time;
plans that either lead to naught;
or half a page of scribbled lines."

Cave Diving

Bonne Terre, Missouri
August 2, 2001


I step off the wooden platform and splash into the clear water below, like a layer of smooth glass. The frigid water penetrates my booties, gloves and hood, jarring me awake. My buoyancy vest holds me on the surface, ripples bouncing off the cave walls send light reflections to and fro like a frenetic disco ball.

I wiggle my body, encased in a 5mm wetsuit, two layers in fact bind my torso and discomfit my crotch. I kick my legs a bit to try and loosen the suit in all the right places. Wince.

To distract myself, I glance down below me and see twenty feet down the odds and ends of this once active lead mine: pick, ore cart, timers shack, railroad tracks; all submerged here 150 feet below the surface.

My past dives took place mainly in warm ocean water and I hardly wore a wetsuit, let alone two 5mm layers, a hood and gloves. Now I know what an astronaut feels like, layers of protective clothing and critical life support equipment. A constrained view of the world through a mask, this requires me to constantly turn to and fro to see around me as peripheral vision is impossible.

The other five divers and two guides form up and we submerge to 50 feet under the frigid water. Swimming slowly down a vertical shaft we round pillars of rock, five feet in diameter which run from the unseen bottom past us to the surface of the water, which looks like a layer of plate glass above us.

Lights suspended in the cave above cast surrealistic shadows on the wall, yet the light leaves everything in shades of gray, a colorless world of only light, dark and nuances in between

We swim through a 3-D system of tunnels, sideways, up & down, and diagonal, I get disoriented and find myself breathing heavy, which I never do. The air hoses tangle in my vest, I pull at hoses to find my air guage, my breaths come in shallow gasps. I check my air, fine; but suddenly I look up at the guides who signal me to move up with a flashlight. My bouyancy turned negative during my thrashing and I sank deeper into a verticle shaft. Adding air to my vest, I rejoin the group.

The dive seems like an endless struggle of bouyancy control, breath control, trying to unbind the wetsuit in my groin; and in-between all this, taking in the ghostly world of the Bonne Terre Mine.

The Mine is located in Bonne Terre, Missouri; the name meaning good Earth. After the lead mine closed in the early 1900's an enterprising husband and wife team bought the mine and turned it into a deep earth dive site in the early 1980s. National Geographic Adventure magazine rates the mine in the top ten of US adventure travel destinations.

My second dive goes smoother as I adjust my lead ballast weight during the break. The cold remains difficult to adapt to; but at least the wetsuit binds no more.

Atlantis Flies

Cape Kennedy, Florida
July 12, 2001

The shuttle Atlantis, lifts off on STS-104.

"Ten nine eight seven six five four...main engine ignition..."

The pale white shuttle gleamed under orange strobes as sparklers burnt off any excess gas under the engines.

At five miles distance, the spacecraft, with its white booster rockets and orange fuel tank, looked like a child's toy sitting alongside a erector set.

A voluminous billowing of grey-white smoke, glowing orange in places, rose up and swallowed the scene.

"three two one...we have LIFTOFF!"

Scattered clapping around me, one collective intake of breath as the black-pointed nose poked out from the cotton balls of smoke. Rising in slow motion, upon a pillar of orange white flame, the Atlantis stretched away from the launch pad, surging up on a single white leg of fire and smoke. I dropped my binoculars and took in the brilliant fireball rising into the early morning sky. Thin cirrus clouds glowed incandescent, pulsing like a fluorescent light being turned on; the horizon shone and long shadows danced across the water.

Yet the night remained otherwise silent, un-breathing, unmoving; like a dreamy vision.

Suddenly, a thunderous boom swept across the dark lagoon and grasslands, engulfing the crowd on the causeway. A collective hue and cry rose up, we shouted with exhilaration, joy, and triumph. I heard myself cheering, laughing and crying. Our sounds lost themselves in the rumbling crescendo which shook the air around us.

The detached voice from mission control rattled off key points in the shuttle's escape from our Earthly bonds. A slight orange glow as the booster rockets separated, falling away from the whiter flame of the shuttle engines. Three minutes later, the blue fire shrank to match the remaining night stars, and became lost in the heavens. The Eastern horizon began to glow a lighter blue.

Reflecting on the moment, a common silent hush befell those around me. More than just the 104th mission to space, the heaven-ward gaze into the infinite reminds us of the mystery of our owns lives and the poignant hope embodied in our dreams.

"Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth..
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."

Cuba Libre

Havana, Cuba
July 4, 2001

I arrived illegally in the country that is a declared enemy of the US on our own independence day. How fitting. I must have fallen a long way from leading Marines in Desert Storm!

That being said, the Cubans I met seem to love Americans and most cannot understand the animosity for Castro. I see classic 1955 Chevy´s plying the roads here, reminiscent of American Graffitti, as well as a time of friendship with the United States.

Walking the Mercado in Havana, which runs along the waterfront, the place can easily be mistaken for Bombay. Run down buildings interspersed with outdoor cafes under fluorescent lights adjoin lovely restored buildings in warm pastels. Young couples strolling arm in arm complete the scene.

Ambling through La Habana Vieja, the historical district of the city, transports one right back to Spain, with Barcelon-esque alleys and pedestrian Prados opening up to a hidden square facing a cathedral, lit softly by orange lights in the bell towers. Underneath, short palm trees set off a section of umbrellas like a sprouting off mushrooms in the moist shelter of a tree. Here, revelers sit to the evening breeze, drinking Mojitos and Cristal, the local Cuban brew. Salsa music plays in the background.

Regal hotels rise alongside billboards proclaiming the revolution with a portrait of Che, as he is know here, sans last nombre. Cuba presents a mixture of modern culture, with jazz clubs and partying youths; set alongside the tributes to revolutionaries, whose time seems to have passed, but whose legacies loom large.

Failure on Kilimanjaro

18,000 feet above sea level
Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania
3 am, March 7, 2002

Me taking a rest break (and posing for The Thinker) among the volcanic rocks of Kilimanjaro, March 2002

I failed.

I do not believe it.

My God, I, Michael Seto, failed.

I gave up. I surrendered. I allowed the specter of failure to defeat me. I turned around and headed back down the mountain, short of even the first peak, Stella Point, on Mount Kilimanjaro.

My guide, Salim, tried to urge me on, but the decision stood finalized in my head. For the last two hours, each step required a herculean effort, straining just to place one foot in front of the other; barely maintaining my balance with trekking poles in each hand. I carried nothing except my recalcitrant body and a few candy bars, Salim relieved my of my light backpack an hour ago. My head ached from the 17,000 feet altitude, drunken with hypoxia (lack of oxygen to the brain), and laboring under a blanket of fatigue.

At this point, I cared nothing for what my friends would say about turning back; I cared nothing for what I would think of myself for turning back. I could not even remember why I was here! What was I trying to prove? I thought of nothing in my reduced brain function; except laying down and sleeping, as capable and temperamental as an eight-year old child.

Defeat hung around me like the early morning fog on the mountain. Humiliated, I did not want to face the cook and my porters, who cared for me for the last four days, just so I could make this attempt up the mountain. I slunk back into Barafu Base Camp, where our summit attempt started, hours ahead of the other climbers, who undoubtedly reached the summit and were celebrating as I lay in my tent.

Failure and I share a long relationship. One of me always running from it's insidious shadow, which drives us toward it's brother, success, in a desperate way, grasping for it like a life preserver. Forever just a step behind me, failure stood waiting to pounce at the first sign of indecision, or hesitation or God forbid, weakness.

I felt its cold embrace upon me not a few times in my life. Yet, I feel that I have never stood face-to-face with failure in a real meaningful way, where my whole life might crumble around me if failure won. No, things have always seem to come easy to me: grades, friends, success, money, and happiness. So when I did face potential failure, it was always with a smug self-confidence, the notion that I still held an ace-in-the-hole; that I would outsmart and outmaneuver its deadly grasp.

For my entire life, I managed to get by without pushing myself to the limit, even in the Marines and on Wall Street. I managed to surmount any challenge with my physical, mental, and spiritual reserves untapped.

Eighty-five percent effort seemed to be all required of me to succeed. So I only gave that much, never red-lining my capacity, never stress-testing the machinery, never looking into the abyss without a safety line around my waist. I have been cheating failure most of the time.

Fear of failure constituted one of my primary motivations in a lot of my life. The fear of looking incompetent, or stupid, or unathletic; which would reveal my true unworthiness as a person to the world. The Emperor wearing no clothes, the real Wizard of Oz exposed. People would see what a fraud I am.

This made me strive for success, not so much for the sake of success, but for the fear and loathing of failure.

Our society worships success. Winners stand venerated, losers excoriated. Pressure to succeed weighs on the mind of all men (women too, I'm sure, but I can only speak for men...well, maybe just me.) This got passed on from the "must slay the woolly mammoth and make fire" days and evolved to "must get gratifying job, buy house, have kids, satisfy partner emotionally, financially, sexually, spiritually etc." Otherwise you are offically a failure; and as such means being humiliated, ostracised, and castrated (symbolic).

As we get older, our failures get more spectacular and public (Mars Explorer, Challenger, Milli Vanilli); yet like protagonist Rob says in "High Fidelity" to his girlfriend, "if you really wanted to mess me up, you should have gotten to me EARLIER" (emphasis mine).

The failures that stand out most in my mind took place when I was young, when my naivete and sense of omnipotence was greatest: Third grade - sitting with Tanya (the blond girl scout), my friend, and being set upon by a bunch of the guys, who pinned me down and shoved grass in my mouth, while I writhed helplessly as she watched. Impotent.

Sixth grade - getting beaten in a singles tennis match at our club by Anita Colona, a girl, a year my junior. I thought I played tennis well. I was crushed. I cried all the way home. Pathetic.

Seventh grade - in a gym lineup of all the new 7th graders, by size of course, I was tail end charlie, smaller then the smallest girl, Shelly Scoggins. My XS gymshorts came to my knees. Loser.

Ninth grade - while working in the school garden over the summer (for brown nose extra credit) I got punched in the face after stepping into a arguement between my friend Tom, and school bully Phil Crone. I backed down and he walked away laughing. Humiliated.

As we get older, our ability to make various sundry excuses and rationalize "non-success" comes much easier: "well, I'll get that promotion next year," "she and I were not really compatible," "I did not really want that job anyway," and the simple but true, "that's life."

We get used to our impotence and incompetence, like water seeking its own level; and therefore being constantly reminded of it does not sting like it did when you are nine-years old. Maybe that's why we switch to sports like golf, where there is no clear winner or loser, its all relative, you play a little better or a little worse each time out. You begin to see things in shades of gray.

As I look at my adult non-successes, like my marriage, some bad stock calls, etc, these things seem more like REAL life; part and parcel to the trials of being an adult. Failure comes naturally the more you do. Its also easy to turn these into some life lesson. Note to self: "Well, XYZ failure was all for the best and what I have learned from this will make me a better person," or some nonsense like that.

This way losers can still be winners! Just like those kids soccer tournaments where we hand out trohpies to everyone for playing...its a self-esteem thing. As though with enough self-esteem we can solve all the world's problems, but I digress...

So has failing to climb Kilimanjaro made me any less a man, or a person, or changed who I am deep down? I don't think so. And at some point along the way I realized that; or I just forgot why I chose to climb that bloody mountain in the first place. Then the sting of turning around and giving up diminished, and the comfort of just being myself took over.

What was I trying to prove to myself for the umpteenth time? I, Michael Seto, who led men in combat on the battlefields of Kuwait, who survived the battlefields of Wall Street, who became a better person through ABC and XYZ failures. What did I have to prove? What DO I have to prove anymore? So I failed to climb Kilimanjaro, so what?

I spent much of my life running blindly from the vampire Failure, lest he drain the life's energy from me and my endeavors, tossing me into a heap of lost souls, the pit of irrelevance. I ran and ran towards the light of success in order to escape the dark abyss lurking below its heights, where one mis-step might cast me.

But each mis-step, each misadventure, however brief, into Failure Hell did not destroy me, or emasculate me. Instead, when I embraced the dark ghoul of failure I found him to be an instructive and wise teacher. One to be cautious of, certainly, but not one to be hysterically fearful of. I realized that he and his twin-brother, success, share a close relationship; and that I cannot have one without the other.

So while I do not seek out Failure's company, when he does arrive unannounced at my door, he is welcomed at my table, for I know he bears wisdom for me; and I should be wont to listen.

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My fear of failure gets the best of me and forces me the remaining way to the top of Kilimanjaro, at 19,340 feet, as the sun rises, seven hours after I set out.